Like all good stories, this one too is based in Mumbai; a city, that I have come to believe, has two particular things in great abundance:
pace and populace. Yesterday, I realized that there are, in fact, three.
Again, a state of abject nothingness allows a man the freedom to
do certain things. Going for the WAT PI (Written Assessment Test and Personal
Interview) process of a certain B school is one of them. This was the third
trip to Mumbai for the purpose of some selection process. The number
of times I have been to this city is a woefully small number, and every single
time, for one reason or the other, hadn't been able to go to Flora Fountain and check out
the famed second-hand book market there; till yesterday, that is.
The venue for the WAT PI process was near Dadar station. Very few
of the total number of people called for the process actually turned up, and I
was 3rd in the list of interviewees allotted to one panel. I was
free by 4:30 pm. It had to be today, I thought, for it’ll be a while before I
get a chance to visit Mumbai again. And thankfully, unlike the morning, it
wasn’t raining. I walked briskly to the Dadar station, bought a ‘Churchgate
return’ ticket and boarded the 04:58pm slow local. By usual standards, the
train was near empty and one actually had a number of seats to choose from. But
then, this was expected; there’s hardly any traffic towards Churchgate in the evenings. Soon, the many offices there
will call it a day, and an enormous number of tired human beings will swell
into the trains from Churchgate.
The train pulled up in the vast Churchgate
station at around 05:15 pm, and already, there was a steady stream of people marching towards the
outgoing trains. I walked to the exit and stopped dead in my tracks. Yes, there was
a little drizzle at number of places along the route to Churchgate, but here,
it was a full-blown downpour. The skies were grey and gloomy, and the rain came
down in sheets.
Damn, confusing the Bernoulli's principle with the Archimedes' one in the PI was bad, but this was far worse. Standing under a shade near the station exit, I waited, desperately hoping that the clouds run out of steam, or water in this case.
As ceaseless as the rains, if not more, was a bulging stream of people walking towards the station; each one of them carrying an umbrella. No sooner did they enter the shade than they turned, and closed their umbrella with one smooth stroke, and shot off in the direction of their trains. The collective uniformity of their actions was unmistakable. It almost looked like a disciplined parade at an army school.
I neither had an umbrella nor an extra pair of dry clothes. I internally debated whether this was a good time to leave and return. I had been forewarned; the numbers would rise to humongous proportions as the evening progressed, and it would be utterly terrifying for a novice like me to board a train.
As ceaseless as the rains, if not more, was a bulging stream of people walking towards the station; each one of them carrying an umbrella. No sooner did they enter the shade than they turned, and closed their umbrella with one smooth stroke, and shot off in the direction of their trains. The collective uniformity of their actions was unmistakable. It almost looked like a disciplined parade at an army school.
I neither had an umbrella nor an extra pair of dry clothes. I internally debated whether this was a good time to leave and return. I had been forewarned; the numbers would rise to humongous proportions as the evening progressed, and it would be utterly terrifying for a novice like me to board a train.
Meanwhile, the downpour continued unabated and a growing number of people were now waiting under the shade. Nearby stood a newspaper seller, his stand full of the remaining copies of The Times of India, The Economic Times, Midday and Saamna. I went to him and inquired where exactly this book market near Flora Fountain was. He explained. Then I asked if the vendors would still be there, given the rains. He nodded, saying that they covered all their books underneath plastic sheets.
There was an underground walkway towards the right. I had to go to the other side through the walkway. In order to somehow minimize the effect of rain, I ran from under the shade to the walkway, which again was teeming with people. Both its sides were lined with hawkers vociferously selling toys, cheap shirts, handkerchiefs, umbrellas, fruits, flowers, and vegetables. Again, near the exit, were gathered a bunch of people reluctant to venture out, and a steady stream of people walking in, closing their umbrellas in one smooth stroke the moment they entered.
I stood here for a while, still undecided whether to go ahead or return. The clouds were relentless, and the book market was quite some distance away.
I stood here for a while, still undecided whether to go ahead or return. The clouds were relentless, and the book market was quite some distance away.
Hell, I slung my bag to my front (everyone else wears it that way in Mumbai) and dashed for Flora Fountain. Such was the downpour that within moments, I was soaked to the skin. But it hardly mattered now. I continued to run on the pavement, jostling for space and making my way through the seemingly endless stream of umbrella-bearing people walking towards the station. Finally, after crossing two signals, as the newspaper guy had mentioned, I was at Flora Fountain. To the left, there was a book stall. Well, it wasn't exactly a stall, and the books were stacked in neat columns on the pavement, sheltered from the rains under a massive blue tarpaulin sheet.
Wiping the droplets off my glasses, I looked. It was a huge collection, and one high column was entirely of Chetan Bhagat books, his recent 'What Young India Wants' at the top. "Family Matters hai?" I asked a guy standing behind one stack. "Rohinton Mistri?" one guy to the left inquired, to my great delight. I nodded, thrilled.
This question "Family Matters hai?" or "Family Matters che?" had been asked countless number of times to several roadside vendors in Baroda. But no one 'haid' it. Worse, they hadn't even heard of Rohinton Mistry, and when one pointed at a copy of 'A Fine Balance' or 'Such A Long Journey' gathering dust in some corner of his stall, they would say "Oh woh, nai woh author ka toh yehi book hai". Even the loaded Hansa Mehta library that had a number of yellowing, hard-bound versions of 'A Fine Balance' and 'Such A Long Journey' didn't have a single Rohinton Mistry's 'Family Matters'. The numerous "great book sales" held periodically in the city had disappointed as well.
The guy at the stall was now rummaging through several stacks of books, and after a brief, quick search, he shook his head. They didn't have it. From behind one of the stacks, he drew a copy of 'Tales from Ferozshabaag' and dropped it in front of me. "Yeh hai" he said. "Yeh hai mere paas" I replied. Utter disappointment was beginning to gnaw at the insides. I turned, and looked around. The stall on the left was selling clothes and the one left to it bags. I wondered. Just one book stall... Everyone said there was a market?
"Yahaan par aur koi books ka dukaan nai hai kya?" I asked the stall guy. "Hai na" he said and pointed towards the opposite side of the road. Again wiping the damned droplets off my glasses with a wet sleeve, I peered at the other side of the road, and I was stunned. There it was, the book market.
The entire length of the pavement running parallel to the road was lined with stacks after stacks, columns after columns of books, nestled in long translucent plastic sheets, with equally long blue tarpaulin sheets sheltering them from above.
It was surreal.
The pedestrian crossing sign turned green, and I was at the other side of the road. "Family Matters hai?" I inquired at the first stall I came across. And almost at the same instant, a guy at the stall drew out a slightly old looking, red coloured hard-bound book. There was nothing written at its front cover. I took the book and turned it around. Nothing was written at its back cover as well; neither the gist of the book nor the praises.
The spine!
There, on the spine of the book, was imprinted, exquisitely in golden letters: 'FAMILY MATTERS ROHINTON MISTRY KNOPF' and I was stunned again.
Wiping the droplets off my glasses, I looked. It was a huge collection, and one high column was entirely of Chetan Bhagat books, his recent 'What Young India Wants' at the top. "Family Matters hai?" I asked a guy standing behind one stack. "Rohinton Mistri?" one guy to the left inquired, to my great delight. I nodded, thrilled.
This question "Family Matters hai?" or "Family Matters che?" had been asked countless number of times to several roadside vendors in Baroda. But no one 'haid' it. Worse, they hadn't even heard of Rohinton Mistry, and when one pointed at a copy of 'A Fine Balance' or 'Such A Long Journey' gathering dust in some corner of his stall, they would say "Oh woh, nai woh author ka toh yehi book hai". Even the loaded Hansa Mehta library that had a number of yellowing, hard-bound versions of 'A Fine Balance' and 'Such A Long Journey' didn't have a single Rohinton Mistry's 'Family Matters'. The numerous "great book sales" held periodically in the city had disappointed as well.
The guy at the stall was now rummaging through several stacks of books, and after a brief, quick search, he shook his head. They didn't have it. From behind one of the stacks, he drew a copy of 'Tales from Ferozshabaag' and dropped it in front of me. "Yeh hai" he said. "Yeh hai mere paas" I replied. Utter disappointment was beginning to gnaw at the insides. I turned, and looked around. The stall on the left was selling clothes and the one left to it bags. I wondered. Just one book stall... Everyone said there was a market?
"Yahaan par aur koi books ka dukaan nai hai kya?" I asked the stall guy. "Hai na" he said and pointed towards the opposite side of the road. Again wiping the damned droplets off my glasses with a wet sleeve, I peered at the other side of the road, and I was stunned. There it was, the book market.
The entire length of the pavement running parallel to the road was lined with stacks after stacks, columns after columns of books, nestled in long translucent plastic sheets, with equally long blue tarpaulin sheets sheltering them from above.
It was surreal.
The pedestrian crossing sign turned green, and I was at the other side of the road. "Family Matters hai?" I inquired at the first stall I came across. And almost at the same instant, a guy at the stall drew out a slightly old looking, red coloured hard-bound book. There was nothing written at its front cover. I took the book and turned it around. Nothing was written at its back cover as well; neither the gist of the book nor the praises.
The spine!
There, on the spine of the book, was imprinted, exquisitely in golden letters: 'FAMILY MATTERS ROHINTON MISTRY KNOPF' and I was stunned again.
True, a good book might be priceless, but it needs to be bought all the same.
"Kitne ka?" I asked the guy. He was probably reading my face as I was checking out the book. He flashed four fingers of his left hand. "400!" I said disbelievingly, and immediately handed over the book to him.
"400 se kam nai hoga, yeh book ka baut value hai" he said.
Dead right man, I thought.
"Value ka kya karu mai? Simple paperback nai hai kya? Woh bhi chalega".
"Nai, yehi hai"
There were far too many stalls there. Surely one of them had a more affordable second-hand paperback? I started walking away from the stall.
"Tum kitne me lega?" the guy shouted.
I flashed two fingers of my right hand at him.
He shook his head. "200 kaafi kum hai..300 de do".
This time I shook my head. "200 hi hai mere paas yaar. Itni baarish me book lene ke liye aaya hoon baahar se".
He called me back. "Accha 250 de do, final".
"tch. 200 hi hai" I said and again, slowly began to walk away, madly wishing that the guy would relent.
Two more guys were manning the stall. They had been quietly observing all the while. One of them finally spoke. "De de" he said, and the second guy nodded.
Done. The deal was sealed. The quest was over. Best use of 200 bucks ever.
I handed him a couple of 100 rupee notes, put the book in my bag, and joined the stream of people heading towards the station; walking along with them for the first time that evening.
Mumbai. The city that has three particular things in great abundance: pace, populace, and books.
"Kitne ka?" I asked the guy. He was probably reading my face as I was checking out the book. He flashed four fingers of his left hand. "400!" I said disbelievingly, and immediately handed over the book to him.
"400 se kam nai hoga, yeh book ka baut value hai" he said.
Dead right man, I thought.
"Value ka kya karu mai? Simple paperback nai hai kya? Woh bhi chalega".
"Nai, yehi hai"
There were far too many stalls there. Surely one of them had a more affordable second-hand paperback? I started walking away from the stall.
"Tum kitne me lega?" the guy shouted.
I flashed two fingers of my right hand at him.
He shook his head. "200 kaafi kum hai..300 de do".
This time I shook my head. "200 hi hai mere paas yaar. Itni baarish me book lene ke liye aaya hoon baahar se".
He called me back. "Accha 250 de do, final".
"tch. 200 hi hai" I said and again, slowly began to walk away, madly wishing that the guy would relent.
Two more guys were manning the stall. They had been quietly observing all the while. One of them finally spoke. "De de" he said, and the second guy nodded.
Done. The deal was sealed. The quest was over. Best use of 200 bucks ever.
I handed him a couple of 100 rupee notes, put the book in my bag, and joined the stream of people heading towards the station; walking along with them for the first time that evening.
Mumbai. The city that has three particular things in great abundance: pace, populace, and books.
